Commitment Read Online Free

impulse.”
    Riley said nothing. The way he looked at her was unnerving. He didn’t seem to have that thing that most people had – where you look away when caught staring. He just kept right on staring, directly into her eyes . And no matter how she tried, she was always first to avert her gaze. 
    “So where’s your entourage?” she asked briskly.
    “I travel light,” Shawn said.
    “Interesting.”
    “Why is that interesting?”
    “I guess I thought every rapper came with a lot more baggage.”
    “Some do.”
    “Do you think that’s one of the reasons that Newsweek reporter wondered whether you were a pariah among hip-hop performers?” Riley asked. “Because you don’t have a crew with you everywhere you go?”
    “You’d have to ask her,” he said. “I didn’t even know what the word ‘pariah’ meant till I looked it up.”
    Then he smiled, so it was difficult to decide whether he was joking or not. Riley leaned back in her chair waiting to see what he might say next. Sometimes interview subjects revealed more when you didn’t ask questions than when you did. But for someone who made a living with spoken word, he seemed remarkably comfortable with silence.
    He didn’t speak for almost a full minute.
    “Political stuff,” he said suddenly . “That’s what I see you writing.”
    She nodded. “Yes. A lot of the time that’s the kind of stuff I write. But more about racial politics than politics in the traditional sense. And gender politics,” she trailed off, not wanting to talk too much.
    “Gender politics,” he repeated.
    “Yeah, the balance of power between the sexes and. . .”
    “I know what gender politics is,” Shawn said lightly. 
    “Of course,” she blushed.
    “So gender politics interests you. But rap doesn’t.”
    Riley tried not to look surprised. “I see what you mean. But I guess I just haven’t looked at rap through that lens.”
    “Interesting,” he said playfully mimicking the tone she’d used to remark on his lack of an entourage. “Maybe you should.”
    She fought the urge to defend herself. It wasn’t as though he’d read anything of hers, and she could hardly be surprised that a rapper thought rap was the most interesting place to look if you wanted to capture the zeitgeist.
    “Poetry?” he asked suddenly.
    “What about it?”
    “Do you write it?”
    “Not very well.”
    “But you do.”
    “Sometimes,” her shoulders hunched reflexively, protectively. And then she realized where he was going. “And yet I don’t listen to rap.”
    “Exactly.”
    “I understand you wanting to defend what you do,” Riley said, sounding more argumentative than she intended. “But I guess I don’t think most rap today says anything. And most of it certainly isn’t poetic.”
    Shawn nodded, not in agreement, but as though she’d confirmed a suspicion he had.
    “I’ll send you some stuff,” he offered.
    “Sure.”
    “ But you’re right; a lot of rap isn’t poetic, but it isn’t supposed to be. Some of us aren’t poets; we’re the town criers, putting out the word on what’s going on in the streets.” He emptied his glass of the last of his beer. “Don’t be so skeptical, Riley. You might be surprised.”
    “Which are you?” she asked.
    “Which . . ?”
    “Are you a poet or a town crier?”
    “You’ll just have to listen to my music and find out.”
    “I have listened to your music.”
    “No,” he corrected her. “You said you’d heard it. That’s not the same as listening.”
    Riley smiled. “You got me there.”
    Of all the things she expected from this interview; being challenged on an intellec tual level was not among them. This was supposed to be a mildly entertaining interlude during which some materialistic, profane youngster described his Bentleys and showed off his most recent jewelry acquisition.
    K Smooth, she now realized, had not been adequately captured by the Newsweek feature. Maybe she’d have a story after all.
    Riley